


Breath of a New Spring

by iezzern



Series: His Shadow'verse [4]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Character Growth, Character Study, Coming of Age, F/M, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26753419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iezzern/pseuds/iezzern
Summary: After the war, Tamlin is left to scramble in his guilt and unstable morals.It'll take a lot to take him back to the male he previously was, a lot more to make him believe in that male.
Relationships: Briar/Tamlin (ACoTaR), Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Tarquin (ACoTaR)
Series: His Shadow'verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919506
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Okay  
> 1\. Idek why I suddenly decided to just write like 5 chapters on Tamlin, but here we are  
> 2\. Idek how this turned into 5 chapters forgive me

Tamlin walks awkwardly next to Neri Vanserra, trying to keep the tears from escaping his eyes. The battle is over. They’ve won. Sent Hybern back to its sad home. Soldiers are already celebrating, drunk and lustful. The hurt are being taken care of—Tamlin hasn’t seen Thesan rest for hours. And yet, Tamlin can’t bear to feel happy.

Victory has never tasted so much like defeat.

Tamlin has lost his court. Lost respect among his comrades. Lost any sense of self-respect. He can’t bear to rebuild it. Doesn’t deserve any kind of saving. So he walks next to Neri Vanserra and tries to not break.

“I appreciate what you did to Father, by the way,” Neri suddenly says, grinning, “I’ve never seen him so…weak”

Tamlin grins back, unsure of how to respond. Forcing Beron to join the fight was just a result of his own shame. A by-thought of scrambling his broken court and racing to the war. He’d burst into the Court, all anger and command, but he’d never been more tired in his life. Living had seemed more like a chore at that point. He would do what he needed to do. Then… Well, Tamlin had never been known for taking falls easily. People, if they didn’t understand, would not be surprised if he…

Neri’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says and there is no doubt that he means it. His grip is tight, digging into Tamlin’s flesh. It feels sure. Real. Something to stay for. And Tamlin finds that he maybe can stay as the Spring Court’s Lord for a bit longer.

Neri grabs hold of some Autumn Court fae, orders him to do something Tamlin can’t hear. Because his own soldiers have set up camp close by. Are helping survivors and comforting the grieving. None of them have caught sight of him yet and he wants to hide. Gathering them to fight had been hard enough, watching them fight worse. He can’t look at them. Can’t let them look at him. He’s too ashamed. Of what he let Ianthe do to his men and his Court.

He sees all the other men he led into suffering and pain by letting Hybern into his Court. All the ones whose families were held hostage. All the ones who stayed in spite, to honour their oaths to him. All the ones who had known him since boyhood and watched him grow into a shameful male. He sees Mariam, that brave man who he had whipped because of Ianthe’s words. Feyre had stayed with him. Tamlin wished he had.

Mariam’s eyes suddenly snap to him, as if he’d sensed Tamlin stare on him. His eyes are unreadable. Tamlin wants to avert his gaze but can’t. Figures he has enough dignity left to meet the eyes of a male he hurt without cause. Mariam keeps staring; arms limp down his sides. He has his shirt off, probably has given it to someone who needs it more. Tamlin can glimpse welts over his shoulders—closed wounds that are still tainted slightly red. The sight of them does something to him. Brings a cold to his heart that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Excuse me,” he has half the mind to say to Neri. The male doesn’t seem to mind—doesn’t protest when Tamlin leaves him by himself. Tamlin starts making his way over to Mariam, aware of the unwanted attention it’ll bring him. His soldiers stop doing their tasks, hands pausing and feet hesitating. All seem to hold their breath. Mariam is still just staring.

Tamlin stops a small distance away from him, steeling himself to not look away. It is harder now that he’s caught his soldiers’ attention. “My Lord,” Mariam says with a tight tone, bows his head slightly. Mariam was from the continents—had never really settled into the Lording superiority system. Tamlin is shaking his own without even noticing, reaching out. “No,” he’s said far too quickly, “Don’t”

Mariam’s eyes widen, unsure, and Tamlin is reminded of a russet curl down over wide, brown eyes and a red blush high on sharp cheekbones. He itches to turn around and look at the male in the memory. They’d been so young. Innocent. _Naïve_ , Tamlin’s father would say. _In love,_ Tamlin’s mother would say. The memory aches in his chest.

“I think an apology is in order,” Tamlin says, surprised at how sure his voice sounds. Mariam’s eyes narrow and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s some murmuring around them. Tamlin swallows and thinks of how his father would roll in his grave if he knew what Tamlin was about to do.

He glances down for a second, and then kneels on the uneven ground. Someone drops something behind him. Tamlin feels his braided hair fall down over his shoulder as he lowers his head. “My Lord?” Mariam asks, his voice a hundred times more unsure than before.

“As I said, an apology”

Tamlin doesn’t recognize his own voice. His fingers are trembling where they’re resting on his own thigh, but, strangely, he doesn’t feel scared. He remembers the speeches he used to hold for his father, how mother’s eyes would sparkle with pride. How his father had looked partially worried and scared before he’d berated him. How he used to think for himself. Speak for himself. He opens his mouth and hopes that ability has just been dormant and not withered away completely.

“I will not say more,” he quietly explains; knows the wrong words will bring the wrong thoughts, “I fear there is nothing I _can_ say to either excuse or justify my actions. I caused you pain when I should’ve protected you—as your High Lord there is no greater shame. I do not expect you to forgive me, and therefore will not request it of you. But the least you deserve is an apology”

Tamlin’s breathing heavily by the end of it, his mind reeling with the knowledge that his own voice has returned to him. Far too long those words that had come out of his mouth had been his father’s. What he’d learned from the only male he’d trusted for a long time.

There’s a touch to the crown of his head.

Tamlin swallows with it.

“I’ll admit, I hadn’t quite expected this, my Lord,” Mariam’s voice says, low, “But it is greatly appreciated”

Tamlin’s eyes rise again. Meet Mariam’s. The male has a slight smile on his lips, but it’s tainted with sadness and partway resentment. There’s angry muttering around them—courtiers and ladies insulted by Tamlin’s display. Tamlin finds he doesn’t care outside the looks of his men. His soldiers. They are the ones whom he would trust with his life. They are the ones who watched him grow. Who loved him. Before he turned into whatever he was now.

There’s approval in Mariam’s eyes. Some sort of trust and disbelief that Tamlin would even consider kneeling for a mere sentry-turned-soldier. It’s mirrored in the males around them; the ones with scars littering their bodies and blood haunting their eyes. Tamlin was always out of his element in a Court.

“My Lord,” Mariam says, and it sounds like so much more than a simple title, “Arise, now”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamlin finds some friends, forgiveness and unhealthy coping mechanisms. He's trying, ok?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, especially, would benefit from you having read all the previous instalments. If you don't want to: basically Lucien takes Elaine's place as kidnapee of Hybern, and Azriel and Mor went to save him. Lucien also has an older brother named Neri, who is precious. The other instalments in this series "From Ember to Ashes" and "The Son of Another" will give better context for Lucien and Neri's situation

It’s nightfall by the time camps are set up. Tamlin is washing blood from his hands; He’d volunteered to assist Thesan when the male was at his most exhausted. The gesture was welcomed with hesitation and only some slight snark. Especially from his lover, Eos. Tamlin kept his eyes downcast whenever theirs met his, too exhausted to face his own fails and words.

Something brushes against his arm. Soft. Gentle.

He glances up to find a girl there. A human, he can tell. She’s too slight to be fae. Not strong enough, none of the usual muscle and strength there. She’s pale, too—sickly so. There are bandages going up her arms, snow and ice pressed in-between. A token from the Winter Court. And probably Hybern, if the angry, red skin under those bandages is anything to go by.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” Tamlin answers as softly as he can. Her voice sends shivers through him. He remembers it. Screaming. A plaything tugged around the camp and taken wherever the soldiers wanted her. Guilt and disgust rage war inside his stomach, turning it and filling it with acid.

He’d turned a blind eye to it. To her pain. All because of unrequited, ridiculous pining for Feyre. All for his unmovable ego and pride. He’d heard Rhysand’s Shadowsinger and cousin, Lady Morrigan, had taken a mortal plaything along with them when they’d rescued Lucien from the King’s clutches. This must be her. Again, someone Tamlin could’ve saved, that he left for Rhysand to pick up.

“You’re hurt,” she says, and the softness of her voice is broken up by hoarseness. Tamlin raises an eyebrow and then glances down at the dirty bandage left over his wrist. Some small cut by a soldier with no name that Tamlin knew. It was so small, Tamlin hadn’t even cared to show it to Thesan.

“So I am”

He’d never been good at making small talk. His father had known that and used it to his own advantage in making Tamlin feel guilty and less-than.

The girl smiles, as if she’s remembering some fond memory. “Let me,” she says softly and reaches for his hand. He indulges her. Lets her grab him. Her skin is so soft; nearly not there. Tamlin releases a breath as she undoes the bandages. Draws another one in when her fingers fleet over split skin. She pours something burning over his wound, soaks a rag in it, and starts cleaning his wound. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t mention it.

“Dirty bandage,” she says, confidence growing with her words, “Would’ve given you an infection”

It wouldn’t, Tamlin’s not human. Tamlin doesn’t say anything. It’s clear she knows what she’s doing. Found use in it a long time ago. Found some joy in it a long time ago. Her fingers stop shaking while she’s laying the bandage, and Tamlin can tell she purposefully lets them brush against his skin sometimes. Tamlin doesn’t say anything.

“What is your name?” he quietly asks. The girl flinches slightly, but still sticks close to him. She’s leaning slightly on his shoulder. “Briar,” she says with a shy smile. Her hands come up to hesitantly clutch his arm. She wants something and Tamlin knows it exactly. He doesn’t think giving it to her would be…good.

“Thank you, Briar,” he says. She blushes. Looks down. Tamlin swallows, wants to withdraw. But he won’t leave her here. With soldiers sending glances and smirks. He considers it. Taking her to his bed. Laying with her. Sharing her warmth.

“And you?” she asks. It takes Tamlin a moment to realize she means his name.

“Tamlin,” he says, “Lindenstreng”

Realization falls on her face when she hears the last name. He’s high standing enough to require a last name, she realizes. Her hands start withdrawing.

“I-I apologize, I didn’t mean—”

“Relax, Briar. There is no insult made”

She relaxes slightly, but there is a distance between them now. A stark reminder that he is High Fae and she is not. The last human Tamlin took to him, he ended up pushing away. Hurting. He removes his arm from Briar’s hold.

“I understand you’ve taken rest with the Winter Court,” he says as he rises. Leaves her kneeling.

“Yes”

She’s quieter now.

“I’ll lead you there, then,” Tamlin says and holds out his hand to her. She takes it hesitantly. “Apologies,” she says again. Tamlin shakes his head.

Viviane throws Tamlin a suspicious look when he returns Briar, but it is quickly gone to make way for affection. “Briar, dear, would you like some sweets?”

Tamlin stares after them as they leave. He swallows, turns, and returns to his soldiers.

He summons Mariam to his tent that night and kneels again. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him that this is wrong. _Degeneracy_ , his father’s voice says in his head. But the world his father has created has already been shattered. And Tamlin doesn’t know what to believe anymore. The rules are a mess at this point.

“Do what you want,” he says. Mariam stares down at him and Tamlin is reminded of Andras, that brave soldier of his who offered his life for the freedom of the Court. The only male after his father’s death he’d ever considered kneeling for. The only male he’d ever considered telling…

Mariam takes a step back. “I can’t,” he says, “My Lord, it would not be proper.”

What he doesn’t say, but Tamlin hears is: “I know what you’re trying to do, and I won’t let you”

Tamlin swallows and grabs Mariam’s hand before he can retreat further. Moves it to his own cheek. Holds it there. Tries not to vomit at the feeling it drops in his stomach. He looks good on his knees, he knows, because Neri Vanserra told him so when he let Tamlin into his bed to…

“I want to,” he says, “Please”

Mariam considers him, where he’s kneeling, with sad, distant eyes. “No,” he says with a finality.

When Tamlin has been left completely alone he finds his Illyrian dagger, undoes his bandages and digs it into his wound until he can feel it hit the bone.

Thesan doesn’t question it when he heals it, even if it obvious the damage is self-inflicted. He gives Tamlin a kiss to his cheek, though, and takes his dagger away. Tamlin takes about an hour to replace it.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamlin finally gets some hint of healing AAAYYYYYYY

Tamlin’s arms are lined with scars by the time the war is two months old. He pretends the soldiers and his courtiers can’t see it. His breath starts to smell of alcohol. And he tries to not. He _tries_ , damn him. He can barely stay awake for Court meetings now.

People are muttering that someone needs to kill him soon. He finds he doesn’t care. It doesn’t scare him. It’s either Wilde or Alder who should’ve gotten this seat. This crown. Tamlin was never meant to be High Lord. Never meant to be important. He misses them helplessly. Most nights he flees to their beds, seeks refuge there. Manipulates himself into thinking there’s some comfort in it. In imagining that his brothers are still alive.

High Lords walk all over his land in efforts to search out Hybern and inspect what they did to the Wall. Tamlin can’t bring himself to care even a sliver. Doesn’t even get up to greet them sometimes. Rhysand and Feyre, luckily, stay away.

Kallias and Viviane bring Briar along with them when they go to inspect the remains of the Wall. The girl looks healthier. A brighter flush in her cheeks. Some weight on her bones. No shaking in her fingers. Tamlin bows and kisses her fingers, and she flushes. Tamlin thinks he could maybe entertain her company this time.

She hangs off Tamlin’s elbow through their entire walk, asks questions and demands Tamlin show her some of his magic. He indulges her. Enjoys indulging her. Tamlin can feel Lady & Lord Winter’s stares in his back through the entire thing, watchful. He doesn’t blame them. He tries to keep Briar from the most dangerous paths and creatures. Has to place his hand around her waist to pull her back once.

He doesn’t remove it. She leans into him. Viviane clears her throat behind them.

Briar seems embarrassed, flushes bright red. Tamlin is just about to send a look to Kallias over her head before he remembers that he and Kallias don’t have that kind of relationship anymore. He leans in to Briar instead, breathes against her ear. She shivers. Not from the cold.

"I used to worship the likes of you," she suddenly mutters when Kallias and Viviane finally fall a little behind them, “Used to pray for your touch—your attention”

Her eyes are lost and she’s scratching as some scar on her wrist. Tamlin doesn’t say anything. Luckily, he knows when to be quiet. What he does do, though, is to still her scratching. He knows the satisfaction it brings but also the pain it leaves.

“They used that,” Briar continues, cold, “They drew me in and then strung me up like meat. Like a toy. Most days I can’t even remember. Those I do remember are just… _pain_.

“I was terrified of him, you know, the man—male—who came to save me. The dark one. With shadows on him. And that Lady. I didn’t know what was going on but…she held me softly. Like I mattered. They were there to save another. But they brought me along, too. Not even an argument. No questions. Saving me was a given.”

Tamlin swallows heavily. It sounds like Rhysand. Like his friends and his family. He doesn’t know the Shadowsinger aside from their…unfortunate meeting in the halls of Thesan’s halls. Doesn’t know Morrigan outside of her tragic tale. “They’re good fae,” he says, “Better than most”

Briar’s eyes snap to him and she takes a shaky breath. “I thought you were gods and then I thought you were monsters. Now I don’t know what to think.”

Tamlin keeps his fingers from shaking. Looks away from her piercing gaze. Forces himself to think of Feyre, her sisters and his soldiers. “Some of us are still monsters, Briar,” he says, “You’ve just been lucky to land in the hands of those who aren’t.”

“Who are still monsters, then? I don’t think I’ve seen any.”

“Me. _I_ am a monster.”

Briar pauses, but she doesn’t tense or pull away from him. She just continues staring. “Why?” she finally asks. Not condescending or disappointed. Just asking. Tamlin takes a deep breath.

“I’ve made mistakes. Mistakes that have hurt others. My friends. My people. My…The love of my life. People I’ve considered family—” Tamlin pauses to gather his thoughts, “—I refused someone. A powerful someone. And as a result, the fae of this country were both hurt and murdered. Children were…children were slaughtered. And then my Feyre came. She saved us all and we were in love. We loved each other. More than you can fathom. And then my love turned into… I hurt her while trying to keep her safe. Hurt so many others in the process. You can’t even imagine…”

The tears finally overtake words and he falls as quiet as he can as to not let Kallias and Viviane see or hear. Briar drops her head down on his shoulder and lays her hand over his where it’s resting on her stomach. “I don’t think mistakes should define you,” she says, clearly trying to be comforting.

Tamlin snorts. Much more angrily than he planned on. "I _am_ those mistakes,” he growls, “I made them and made others live with them"

He sees Feyre’s eyes as he traps her in his manor. Lucien stumbling his way into the Court, clutching at an eye that isn’t there. Rhysand turning to him with murder in his eyes, and endless pain. A young, violet-eyed girl screaming for mercy. He sends his soldiers into battle and he sees them slaughtered by Amarantha and that mask is back on his face and _nonono_.

"Maybe you should allow yourself to be more than those mistakes.”

Briar’s voice breaks through his spiral like a slap through water. He looks down at her and swallows down his retort. His throat is burning. His eyes stinging. He can barely breathe. Briar is watching him intently, brown eyes staring up through dark strands. She continues on.

“The man that is going to lead this Court, would you have him be your mistakes?” she asks without expecting a reply, and her voice is an unquestionable force that rocks through Tamlin’s stone heart, “The man that is going to hear his people’s needs, would you have him be your mistakes?”

She releases herself from his hold, still holding onto his hand, and runs out in front of him. She smiles and Tamlin thinks that there is nothing comparable to a human’s joy.

“Maybe you are a monster, maybe you will always be,” she continues, and Tamlin can’t understand how she can say such things with such a smile, “but a monster can still make an effort to be kind, to _be better._ ”

Tamlin isn’t pretending that Kallias and Viviane can’t hear them now. He finds he doesn’t care. Tears burn in his throat. Briar’s smile is blinding.

“Prove your mistakes wrong,” she says and tugs him to her, presses them close together, “Prove that there is a _reason_ you call them your mistakes. Don't give them the satisfaction of _proving_ _them_ _right_."

Kallias and Viviane pretend they can’t see him weeping when they make their way back.

Briar wakes him that night, in his own bed. She’s shivering from the cold, her smallthings clinging to her skin. Her skirts are fisted in her hands. Tamlin finds his eyes lingering on her thighs. He wants to bury his mouth between them.

“Tamlin,” she whispers. He sits up and holds the bedsheet up for her. She climbs in beside him. Presses her form to his. He feels every curve, every softness and hardness. She lets her mouth travel over his jaw. He finds his way down her front and in-between her thighs.

It’s a good night.

Tamlin starts facing the people he rules.


	4. IIIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did this happen? Idk, they seemed hot together, and I love Tarquin so....enjoy!

Tarquin visits the Spring Court about half a year after the war. Some kind of diplomatic meeting the two of them will have.

Tamlin doesn’t know why Tarquin is even bothering. None of the other High Lords are. Tamlin is an outcast to them now, someone who doesn’t even deserve the lowest of respects. But Tarquin seems adamant in his pursuit of Tamlin. It’s annoying. Or exhilarating. Tamlin doesn’t quite know.

They greet each other with awkward smiles and Tamlin gets some horrible, horrible memories of his father and Beron Vanserra. He hopes that this time will end better. He offers Tarquin wine. He declines. Tamlin is relieved because now he has no excuse to do so himself.

“Rumours have spread,” Tarquin says late into the night. They’re sitting, more sprawled, on a divan, on a balcony giving sights out over the garden. The stars are beautiful. “Have they now?” Tamlin responds, masking the way his body just went ice-cold. He doesn’t know what kind of rumours have spread. What people have said about him.

Tarquin glances over at him, swirls his fruitdrink around in his cup. “They say you knelt to and begged forgiveness from one of your sentries,” he continues and ignores Tamlin almost spitting his drink out.

He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t spoken to Mariam since the incident in his tent; hadn’t thought of his apology since either. He raises an eyebrow, gestures for Tarquin to continue. The way his skin glows in the light reminds Tamlin of Andras. Andras and his nimble fingers and his quick tongue and his…

“It’s unusual for a High Lord to show such deference for his subjects,” Tarquin says carefully, “People are worried for your…health”

“They can worry all they want,” Tamlin snarks, doesn’t care much for diplomacy at this moment, “I’d rather not let the shame of what I did fester in me”

“So you admit you wronged a subject of yours,” Tarquin cuts in, just as fiercely, “That you do not have a superior right to be correct”

Tamlin is taken aback before he remembers that Tarquin wasn’t meant to be High Lord either. That he’s following his heart in spite of what it means to be a High Lord. He takes a breath. “What are you searching for here?” he asks, “Just say it”

Tarquin breaks his stare away, eyes his drink. “I’ve been trying to unite High Fae in…deferring power to lesser fae,” he says after a moment’s hesitation, “It’s not easy.”

Tamlin thinks of the High Lords and their usual arrogance. How the High Fae have called themselves _High Fae_ and the ones beneath them _lesser fae_. He thinks of his grandfather’s thoughts and ideas. How his father spat upon them. How he used to idolize them. He thinks of Mariam’s shock when Tamlin admitted he’d wronged him.

Tarquin looks like he’s about to bolt out of the Court itself. Tamlin suspects he’s faced rejection in this very position multiple times. He runs his fingers along the edge of his cup.

“Keep talking,” he eventually says.

Tarquin breathes a breath of relief. And then he starts talking. And doesn’t stop. And doesn’t stop. And doesn’t stop. Tamlin could listen to his speeches for hours. He speaks so greatly. Of rewriting history and how the ones who deal the cards always say the game is fair. He finds himself nodding along.

Tarquin tells him to join him in trying. Join him in revolutionizing the Courts and their system. Tamlin finds himself agreeing. Tarquin’s smile at that is undefeated and it reminds Tamlin of Andras and that look in his eyes when he went over the border. That time Tamlin hadn’t dared kiss him and then lost him forever.

Their conversation dwindles away after Tarquin had gotten to say what he wanted. There’s a pleasant calm over them. Tamlin allows himself to reach out and thread his fingers through Tarquin’s loose hair. It cascades like threads of finely spun diamond over his skin. The High Lord of Summer freezes.

Tamlin does as well.

Their eyes meet and Tamlin has only ever been so terrified when his father found out about his affair with Neri Vanserra. He finds it ironic that this is the memory that’s been brought to the forefront. Neri Vanserra was his first male, and last if his father had anything to say about it. Andras had nearly broken that say; Mariam had gotten the chance. And now…Tamlin is tired of adhering the words of a dead man with outdated beliefs.

He leans in a small distance—continues when Tarquin doesn’t pull away. Their lips brush in a soft touch. Tarquin’s breath hitches. Nearly at the same moment as Tamlin’s. He feels young again. Like a boy with his first crush. They end up breathing each other in, lips nearly upon each other. Tarquin licks his lips; Tamlin’s eyes flick down.

He moves forward more forcefully—captures Tarquin’s lips with his own. Tarquin’s cup slips from his fingers and spills drink all over the smooth stone. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. Tamlin licks over Tarquin’s lips. He moans.

Tamlin inches forward, presses his chest to Tarquin’s. Fingers trail over his cheek, leave a blush in their wake. Tarquin lets them drop further, tugging at the laces of Tamlin’s shirt. Tamlin’s skin burns where they touch. Tarquin sinks back in the pillows, pulling Tamlin along with him. He ends up sprawled over him, leaning heavily on his strong, muscled chest.

Their lips separate at that and Tarquin lets out a breathless laugh. “Those pretty lips of yours,” he murmurs. Tamlin feels it thrumming through his bones. Heat raves through his body, pools low in his stomach. He leans in to kiss Tarquin’s jawline. The male gasps.

Tarquin’s beautiful dark skin gleams in the slight light brought from inside. Tamlin traces the shadows thrown over it with his mouth. Tarquin growls—softly, though—and grinds his hips against Tamlin’s. His hands go straight to the back of Tamlin’s thighs. Rubs up and down them, squeezing the muscle. He hums appreciatively.

A hand comes up to cradle the back of Tamlin’s head. Keeps it where it is, and then pushes down. Tamlin goes breathless with it.

He kneels easily. Far too easily. Falls down, with the edge of the divan digging into his chest, between Tarquin’s splayed legs. Tarquin’s wearing a loose drape. Easy to manoeuvre. Easy to tug off.

The logical part of Tamlin’s brain shouts at him that they’re on a balcony. In public. Where sentries, soldiers, lords and ladies can see. Where they’ll probably spread rumours from. He doesn’t care. Not when Tarquin’s hard, hot cock rests against his cheek.

He lets his fingers brush up against it. The High Lord whines low in his throat. Tamlin chuckles. “You think this is good, give me a few minutes.”

He pokes out his tongue and licks the tip of Tarquin’s cock, eyes going up to see the High Lord bite his lip. He wraps his mouth around the head. Tarquin’s hips jerk up, hits the back of Tamlin’s throat. He’s never had a gag reflex anyways. Tarquin melts when he realizes.

Tamlin doesn’t know if the male is a complete virgin or just extremely sensitive. He finds he enjoys it. Really, really enjoys it.

He teases his fingers at the sides of Tarquin’s thighs, watches him quiver. He rolls his tongue around Tarquin’s cock, smiles around it at Tarquin’s eyes going hazed. Tamlin swallows hard and Tarquin’s thighs tremble under his fingertips. “Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” Tarquin croons. Tamlin closes his eyes and tries to not let it destroy him.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finality

Surprisingly, Tamlin sucking cock on a public balcony has not diminished the Court’s respect of him. Neither did him bringing Tarquin to his bedchamber at dawn.

They’re laying tangled together now, Tamlin tracing patterns Tarquin’s supple stomach. Tarquin is catching his breath, barely minutes away from having thrown Tamlin on his back and fucking him into the sheets. Tarquin’s fingers are playing curls into Tamlin’s golden hair.

“Thank you,” Tamlin tells Tarquin, not even bothering to mention for what. Tarquin doesn’t ask. He presses his thigh against Tamlin’s stomach instead, warming it. Tamlin sighs and would be happy to lay here with Tarquin all day. Relaxing and fucking. Finding all of Tarquin’s weak spots and Tarquin finding all of his weak spots.

Instead, a knock comes at the door.

Tamlin wants to ignore it, but Tarquin calls out: “Come in!”

Mariam steps into the room and falters in his steps when he sees the two of them. The sheet is, luckily, covering both of them well enough but it’s still obvious what they’ve been doing.

Mariam quickly diverts his eyes, but a smirk is climbing his mouth. “We have need of your guidance, my Lord,” he says, “Some skirmishes on the western sea border”

Tarquin lets go of Tamlin with a sigh. “I should probably get back home, as well,” he says. Tamlin, surprisingly, doesn’t feel any form of anger at the thought. He sits up, lets the sheets pool around his waist. He feels Mariam’s eyes burn there. Smirks at the thought.

“You’re very welcome back,” Tamlin tells Tarquin, “Whenever you want” “I’ll put that invitation to good use,” Tarquin answers and gets up to press a kiss to Tamlin’s mouth. Tamlin smiles around it, pulls back just when Tarquin started to pull him back into bed.

“You can find the door when you want to,” Tamlin informs Tarquin as he stands up from the bed and crosses the room, “But there’s no rush for you to leave.”

-:-

Mariam keeps glancing at him on the way to the main hall. Sometimes he holds his hand out and slightly presses it to Tamlin’s back, before retreating again. Tamlin finds it partway endearing, partway annoying.

“What is the matter?” he finally asks, just when they can see the hall and Tamlin’s throne.

Mariam glances over at him and fidgets at his sword. “Did he treat you well?” he asks. Tamlin smiles, blushes with it, too. “Yes,” he says, “Very well”

“I am glad,” Mariam says with mirth, and Tamlin doesn’t feel at all mocked.

Mariam steps aside at the bottom of the throne, soldier demeanour falling into place. Immediately distances himself from Tamlin in a way he feels. A young girl, small enough to be a child, stands before the throne, trembling. _Some skirmishes on the western border_ , Mariam had said. Tamlin eyes her and her deep blue skin; her bright, white hair; the way she’s clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking. The lords and ladies around them have already dismissed her—she’s a desperate, lesser fae.

_We have no need of jewels,_ Feyre’s voice echoes in his head and he sees her running after a Water-wraith with her jewellery in hand. _Just the word lesser is wrong, don’t you see?,_ Grandfather’s voice echoes and he sees grandfather bloodied and broken in his bed, a vicious attack. _Why are their needs deemed less than ours?,_ his own voice echoes, young and naïve, just before his father’s patience broke and his fists flew.

He stops where he was on his way up to his throne—can’t take his eyes off those trembling hands. He takes a step down again. And again. And again. There’s a sharp intake of breath from beside him. There are murmurs around the hall. He sits down on the bottom step and unclasps his drape.

He gestures for the girl to come sit beside him. She hesitantly does. Tamlin wraps his drape around her and rubs her shoulders. “You don’t need to be scared,” he tells her, “You’re safe now. Why are you here?”

He lets her lean into his side, and he feels her relax in a way that suggests she hasn’t relaxed for days. Her breath hitches again and again until she’s finally sobbing out a story of Hybern and their terrible beasts. Tamlin breathes in a deep sigh. He’d hoped Hybern would retreat for good. Seemingly not.

He tugs the girl closer and lets her weep her tears onto his shirt. “You’re safe now,” he says again, “I’ve got you. We’ll help you”

He glances up and catches Mariam’s eyes. There’s something simmering there. Tamlin thinks it’s something akin to pride. “Mariam, would you be so kind as to fetch my lawmakers and the Council for me?” he asks as softly as he can as not to scare the girl, “I fear I am quite tired of our dusty laws and traditions”

“Of course, my Lord,” Mariam says and it feels like a breath of a new spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well, this was a wild ride... I hope you enjoyed, please leave kudos and a comment if you did!


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